


Not The Man They Think I Am At Home

by Tito11



Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prison, Alternate Universe - Space, F/M, M/M, On Hiatus, Rape/Non-con Elements, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 22:59:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,393
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tito11/pseuds/Tito11
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve's been a farm boy, a commander in the Imperial Forces, a freedom fighter with the Rebel Army. He's never been a prisoner, though, not until now, when he finds himself in one of the most secure prisons in the galaxy. His new cellmate is none other than war criminal Tony Stark, who's been in prison three years and already owns the place. His methods go against everything Steve believes in, but he finds himself strangely drawn to the man. They've each got secrets, though, and it's these more than anything else that could destroy them all.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not The Man They Think I Am At Home

**Author's Note:**

> Okay, wow, another new story, just what I need, right? But I figure as long as I continue to update all of the ones I've got going, why not add another to the mix when the need strikes. I wasn't sure whether I wanted to do a prison!au or a space!au, so I compromised on this space prison!au. 
> 
> warning here, because Steve gets non-conned again. it is prison, after all, even if it's in space.
> 
> title from "Rocket Man" by Elton John

The space station isn’t a large one, not compared to some of the bases Steve’s been stationed on during his time with the Imperial Forces. Those ones had all been large enough to hold at least ten thousand strong and were well-armed to boot, with ray guns and plasma cannons on every level. But those had been something of floating cities, though no city Steve has ever seen planet-side has ever been that well-armed. 

This station, the one Steve’s being transported to, is nothing like any of his old bases. For one thing, there are no tell-tale gun decks on the outer edges. For obvious reason, too: this base isn’t meant to keep people out. It’s meant to keep them in.  
The processing after Steve steps off the transport ship takes hours. It’s mainly for the incoming prisoners’ discomfort, Steve thinks, the reason the whole ordeal takes so long. It’s only him and twenty-three others, and all of them already had their identities verified through DNA analysis time and again, once at arrest and then every time they’d had to appear for trial. Steve’s trial had been rushed, only lasting a few days, but he thinks most of these men and women being processed with him probably had trials that lasted weeks at the very least; suspects with Steve’s charges are usually brushed under the rug, but most offenders are made into an example, a warning to the people of the Empire not to try anything stupid. The others are all tired by now, Steve can tell, ready to just be done with the whole thing and start their sentences. Steve, though, he was an officer in the Emperor’s Interstellar Squadron and even if that was years ago, he still remembers how to hurry up and wait.

As he’s waiting in line, he can feel the eyes of the guards on him. It’s not a surprise, not really. Steve is tall and well-built. He holds himself like a military man, like a man who knows how to handle a weapon. The officers are probably wary, truth be told, and that’s definitely not a good thing for Steve. One of them, a young female who keeps her hand on her stunner in the fashion of a Planet Trooper, gives Steve a narrow-eyed look. 

Great, Steve thinks. He hasn’t even been here a day and he’s already getting in trouble. It’s not that Steve expected maximum security prison to be easy, but he had hoped to keep his head down, at least for a while. Steve’s got plenty of life experience, going from farm boy on a backwater planet to commander in the Imperial Forces to those things he did after. He’s certainly been in plenty of hazardous situations. This prison, though, it’s one of the most secure in the galaxy, holding everything from political dissenters to murderers. Steve knows that means there’s bound to be plenty of danger, not just from the guards but also from the inmates. He’s well-trained, sure, but he’s also new at this, and he’s betting the dangerous inmates will be able to smell him out like the fresh meat he is.

Eventually, after hours and hours of processing and being made to wait, Steve’s taken with the rest of the group through a secure bulkhead door that leads from the Processing area to the section of the station where the inmates are housed. No one talks as they march, hands still cuffed behind their backs. Nothing is explained. The guards barely look at them. This is a daily occurrence for them, after all. Why bother talking to the chattel?

Steve’s cell, the one he’ll probably be living in for the rest of his life, is in Block 392. The door is a clear acrylic glass, Steve can tell by looking at it. The guard escorting Steve forcibly turns him, grabs his arm and yanks, leaving Steve with no other choice but to turn away from the door. It’s either that or fight and Steve’s not ready to make that kind of trouble just yet. He hears a faint whirring, the kind that means a DNA scan is being conducted, then a beeping that’s probably the guard entering his identification code into the little screen by the door.

“Back you!” he hears, and takes a step back before realizing he’s not the one being spoken to. “You’ve got a new cellmate. Try not to kill this one, eh?”

And that, that does not bode well for Steve’s relationship with the man in the cell, his future cellmate.

“You know I only ever make the suggestion,” says a voice that’s not the guard’s. It’s his new cellmate’s voice and it sounds amused. “They do the rest of the work on their own.”

The guard doesn’t reply, only yanks Steve back around and gives him a shove forward into the cell. Steve scans it at once. There’s a bunk bed against one wall of the room, a toilet and sink against the other, all made of plasteel and apparently fixed to the ground. The sheets and pillows on each bed are standard issue and perfectly made up. Nothing in the room suggests someone lives there, no personal effects or individual touches. In fact, the only thing that doesn’t seem prison-issued is the man, apparently Steve’s cellmate. He’s standing with his hands pressed up against the back wall and is facing in the same direction, so all Steve call tell about him is that he’s got dark hair.

The cuffs rub at Steve’s wrist as the guard takes them off, but Steve holds still throughout the process. He’s had far worse injuries in battle and he has a feeling that the meeker he acts around the guards, the better it’s going to be.

“Okay, then,” the guard says and gives Steve another little shove forward, just for good measure. Then, before Steve can even turn around, the door snicks shut behind him.

Steve whirls around at once, takes the few short steps to the door and examines it. It’s probably not wise to put his back to his cellmate so soon, but he can’t help himself. He’s never, ever been as trapped as he is right now, with the full weight of the Empire keeping him locked up. He hasn’t really thought about it before now, hasn’t let himself think about it, but this could be it. He could and probably will be here for the rest of his life. He’s got friends in low places, but even they might be able to help him out of this one.

“So,” he hears and spins around to see the dark-haired man lounging casually across the bottom bunk, staring right at Steve. He looks to be about Steve’s age, thirty or so by standard imperial years. His eyes are dark, too, and his smile is large and lazy. “Guess this means we’re roomies. I’ve never had anyone as attractive as you in my bed.”

“Wh-what?” Steve stutters. He curses himself as soon as it’s out. He should be presenting a strong front here, not allowing his weaknesses to be seen. He knows about the prison hierarchy, has watched holofilms and documentaries about it, back in the old days when he still had luxuries like those. If he’s not going to be someone’s catamite here, he’s going to have to prove himself and fast.

“Well,” the man says with a rough chuckle. “My bunk bed, anyway. It’s really all one unit, you know? Still, you’re probably the hottest newbie who’s ever, uh, bottomed for me, if you will.” He pats the bed next to him, but Steve just backs up a few steps. He’s not sure what to do here, how to react in the way least likely to get him prison raped. He’s sure he can take this guy, probably has a few inches on him, though it’s hard to tell with the man sitting, but if this man is some kind of king of the prison, Steve’s not sure what the path of least resistance might be. He’s sure he’s not going to get out of this situation completely intact, but if he can find a way to keep the most damage from being done, that’s something at least.

“Stay the hell away from me,” he says, drawing up every bit of reserve he has to keep his voice from shaking. Maybe if he shows a strong front, the guy will lose interest.

The guy shrugs, straightening up from his seductive sprawl on the bed and instead leaning forward to swing his legs off the mattress. “If that’s what you want, blondie,” he says casually, tone no longer sexual. “But out of the two of us, I’m the only one who knows what goes down in this hell hole, so I’d pay attention if I were you. I could help you if you’d let me.”

It makes sense, finding an ally, and the way this man gave up on seducing Steve so easily bodes well for Steve’s virtue in this room. Information never comes without a price, though, and Steve’s learned his lesson about that over the years. “What would you get out of it?” he asks, taking a cautious step forward. 

“Nothing big,” the guy says, waving a hand dismissively. “Just your soul.”

“What?” Steve asks, incredulous.

“Kidding, kidding,” the man says and he throws his head back and laughs, giving Steve a glimpse of a long white scar across his throat. “Geeze, you’re easy to wind up. You’re going to have to stop being so damn jumpy if you’re gonna make it in here. Come here, have a seat.”

Steve hesitates. The man’s changed tracks, it’s true, but there’s no guarantee this isn’t all some plot to lure him in. At last he reasons that if the man tries anything, Steve can always fight back when it comes down to it, and he goes to sit on the other side of the bed, barely within arm’s reach. Up close, the man looks familiar. Steve thinks for a minute that he might be someone he served with in the Forces, but then dismisses the idea. The man doesn’t have the demeanor of a soldier; he’s too twitchy, constantly moving his hands around.

“I’m Tony,” the man says and holds out a hand. After determining that there’s no weapon of any kind in his palm, Steve reaches out to shake it. It’s a good, strong handshake and Steve can feel the scars on his hands where callouses must once have been.

“Steve,” he says. So far, so good, even if it’s only an exchange of names.

“Steve,” Tony repeats, rolling the word on his tongue in a way that makes Steve blush against his will. “What are you in for, Steve?”

“I’d rather not say,” Steve says stiffly. He’s safer if he’s more anonymous, he reasons. Even most hardened criminals are loyal Imperialists and Steve’s not going to say or do anything to make them think he’s not.

“Fair enough,” Tony says, shrugging. “I’m in for war crimes, myself. No big deal, really, just some illegal dealings under the table.”

The words trigger something in Steve, a memory from a few years ago, just before he left the Forces. He’d read an article one evening over supper, an article about a war criminal. Tony Stark was the name and Steve knew it from the government-issued weapons he’d carried over the years. The article had contained a summary of Stark’s offenses, the war crimes and profiteering, the selling of weapons to enemies of the Empire that had landed him in prison. It had also shown a picture of the man, and Steve will be damned if it’s not the same face sitting right in front of him.

Steve tries to remember what he’d read in the article about Stark’s background. The man had been born on a deep-space science compound, never even stepping foot planet-side until he was thirteen and had already tested out of the Emperor’s curriculum. His father had been the Howard, the Destroyer of Worlds, the biggest name in weapons development in recorded history, but the man had died when his son was only seventeen, leaving Tony to step up and lead the empire his father had built, which he did quite competently until he decided to start betraying the Emperor. Steve remembers reading all of this and thinking quite clearly that it was upbringing that made the difference of who was loyal and disloyal to the Emperor. Of course, less than six months later Steve had become his own brand of criminal and that’s when all his ideals started to get fuzzy in his head.

“Tell me about this place,” Steve demands, brushing aside Tony’s confession. He doesn’t want to dwell on that or on who this man in front of him really is, what he’s done. Steve has far too many of his own ghosts to worry about other people’s as well. “What’s the schedule? What’s expected of us?”

Tony sighs like he’s being put-upon, which makes Steve tense. He starts to speak, though, voice unchanged from its earlier carefree lilt. “Nothing’s expected of us, dummy. Well, follow orders when the guards come around, obviously, but apart from that we just sit here, pretty much. They let us out for an hour three times a day and don’t bother us during those times. They’re not even around, usually, unless they’re bringing newbies. It’s not the guards you have to watch out for, though; it’s the other prisoners.”

“And how do I do that?” Steve asks desperately. He knows he’s showing his weakness, his inexperience, but if Tony has advice on how to survive in this world, he’s going to take it.

“Just stick with me,” Tony says, winking. “I’ll do what needs to be done.”

Steve doesn’t like the sound of that, but Tony hasn’t tried to hurt him so far, hasn’t tried to force him into anything. He seems genuinely friendly, too, like even if he doesn’t exactly want to help Steve, he’s at least willing to do it.

“Okay,” Steve agrees. “I can do that.”

“Good,” Tony says, leaning over to pat Steve on the shoulder. “Doors should be opening in a few minutes. Then we can get out a bit, stretch our legs, maybe get some dinner.”

Sure enough, less than a minute later, the door hisses and swings open of its own accord. Tony leads him out into the hallway, where Steve can see other doors all up and down the corridor being opened and people stepping outside. None of the others approach him and Tony, which Steve thinks must be a good thing. Tony obviously commands respect, which means Steve might have a bit of protection just from hanging around with him. The less fights Steve has to endure, the better.

The entire time they’re walking down first one corridor, then another, Steve only sees prisoners, no guards. He wonders what keeps these people in line, what makes them return to their cells at the end of the hour. He asks Tony this, in a hushed whisper as they enter what appears to be a common area filled with tables and chairs.

“There’s nerve gas,” Tony explains. “The guards release it into the air if everyone isn’t back where they need to be by the end of the hour. As for what keeps them in line, well, absolutely nothing. It’s the law of the jungle, baby.”

Steve doesn’t especially appreciate being called “baby,” but he lets it go as a figure of speech. He can see a swarm of prisoners at the far end of the hall, probably grabbing at food left there by the guards. There’s a bit of fighting, Steve can see, and he understands how this place might be ruled by animal laws. These people are treated like animals, after all, kept in cages and expected to fight over shares of food; it’s no wonder they’re acting wild.

“Hello, Natasha,” he hears Tony say and looks back at the man in front of him. Tony’s turned toward Steve, but he’s looking at something behind Steve and slightly to the right. “This one’s mine.”

Steve goes to turn his head, to see what’s behind him, who Tony’s talking to, but he doesn’t get the chance. Without any warning at all, his left knee receives a vicious kick, causing it to buckle. His attacker takes advantage of the weakness to force Steve onto his knees completely, then into a lying position on the ground, with the use of a solid grip and a steel knife pressed against his throat. Steve could fight, he could, but the knife is very sharp and deadly, right up against his windpipe.

He lies on the ground, torn between attempting to fight and maybe getting a knife to the throat or letting whatever happens happen, just getting it over with. He doesn’t know this place, this life and his chances are slim, especially because he can see his attacker is really two people, a blonde boy with strong arms and a lithe redheaded girl with a steady knife hand. He decides his best chance is probably Tony, who at least promised to help him out, if nothing else.

Except, when he looks up at Tony, the man is staring at him, watching the attack happen without doing anything about it. Stranger than that, though, is the way both the boy and the girl pinning him down seem to be looking right at Tony, almost like...like they’re waiting for instructions.

Fuck, Steve thinks. He’s been tricked. Tony was probably planning this the whole time, just waiting until he had his henchmen around to hold Steve down. Steve knows he’s right when Tony leans down and starts to yank at Steve’s prison-issued bottoms. “Don’t,” he says and kicks out. The girl just tightens the knife to his throat and he can feel blood start to trickle down to pool in the hollow of his collarbone. The boy tightens his grip on Steve’s arms, too, readjusting and pushing him further into the ground.

“I’m sorry about this,” Tony says as he finishes getting Steve’s pants off and starts to pull down his own pants. “But it’s the only way.”

Helplessly, Steve glances around at the swarm of prisoners watching. They’ve gathered quite a sizeable crowd, he notes rather numbly, but none of them will make eye-contact. None of them say anything or move to stop this display. No one is going to help him.

“Please don’t do this,” he pleads and it pains him to beg like this, but the alternative is so much worse. “You don’t have to do this, please.”

Tony ignores him, just kneels down between Steve’s legs, shoves them apart, despite Steve’s best effort to keep them closed. The knife bites again, though, and Steve can feel himself giving up. He closes his eyes, knowing his best bet is to just pretend he’s not here, pretend this isn’t happening. 

_He’s with Peggy, he thinks, Peggy and Bucky and they’re all playing in the fields. He’s supposed to be doing chores, but he’s daydreaming instead, imagining what it would be like to be a pilot, to fly spaceships up there past the clouds and into the stars. Peggy’s sweet laugh is echoing in his ears and Bucky’s grinning madly and-_

The entry, when it comes, is more painful and more invasive than anything Steve could have braced himself for. Still, he doesn’t cry out, doesn’t scream. He’s better than that, he’s a commander in the field and in the stars. He bites the inside of his cheek until he tastes blood, but he keeps his mouth shut and doesn’t yell. He tries to go back to that happy place he’d just been, his childhood memories with his very best friends in the galaxy. He can’t, though. The pain and the terrible, horrible feeling of being used are too pervasive, too real.

_This is it_ , he thinks as he loses himself to the pain. This is prison. Steve is a prisoner and he’s someone’s bitch, and he’s going to stay that way for the rest of his life. There is no hope. There is no escape. There is only the knife at his throat and the man inside him.


End file.
